


The Mermaid

by ink_magpie



Series: Daisies for the Queen of the Dead [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anti-Hero, Awkward Crush, Drama, Edwardian Period, F/M, Family Drama, Flirting, Heroes to Villains, History, Holidays, Italy, Magical Realism, Mermaids, Older Man/Younger Woman, Resolved Sexual Tension, Revenge, Revenge Sex, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vendetta, World War I, f/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-01-24 12:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18571861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_magpie/pseuds/ink_magpie
Summary: Struggling writer Walter Thripp is invited to stay at the holiday home of an old friend from his Cambridge Cricket Days, but after a chance encounter with a mermaid, old betrayals, scandals and rivalries threaten to destroy the idyll.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Grab a cup of tea and get comfy, guys. This one's a long one.

 

_A mermaid found a swimming lad,_

_picked him for her own,_

_pressed her body to his body,_

_laughed; and plunging down_

_forgot in cruel happiness_

_that even lovers drown._

_William Butler Yeats_

 

A week after I publish my column in the Evening Standard claiming that war with Germany is inevitable, a handful of readers accuse me of scaremongering.  Two weeks later, when one of those bloody suffragettes sets fire to the pillar box outside my home, I decide to spend the summer travelling.  London is dreary, brim full of angry women and bubbling with talk of war _(no thanks to me)_ ; besides, it’s looking more and more likely that it’ll be my last chance to see Europe before it’s ripped apart by German artillery.  So, when I bump into an old chum from my Cambridge University Cricket days, who – quite incredibly – just happens to own a villa in southern Italy, I consider myself lucky.  
  
Perhaps the word “chum” is a little misleading. The last time Harry Campbell and I batted together Queen Victoria was still alive, and Scratch _(as we all called him back then)_ had threatened to batter the umpire when he was caught out on a dodgy throw _(the man’s temper had always been as raw and as irritable as his skin)_.  We kept in touch a little after Cambridge, but you know how it goes – we’re all ships passing in the night, especially in London.  In those twenty years or so since we last saw each other Scratch – it seems – has done rather well for himself – to my great surprise. We meet at the Cigar Divan on The Strand for coffee on a misty Tuesday morning and his lips curl around his cigar as he tells me the story of how he fluttered his meagre inheritance on the stock market and managed – to his advantage – to convince a handful of his more gullible friends to do the same.  But his biggest pay off by far had come when he’d managed to convince Lord Apsley’s only daughter and heir to marry him.

‘Honestly, Wally–’

That's me, by the way. _Wally_.  Or, rather, Walter.  Walter Thripp.

‘–There’s no more skill to it than there is to speculating on the horses.  You spot a dark horse and throw money on it before anyone else has the sense to,’ Scratch says with a shrug as he taps the ash from his fat cigar.  He smirks and lowers his voice, ‘Of course, a tip off always helps… which, in _this_ case was that the filly in question had rolled in the hay with the Prince of Wales _and_ had a father who was expected to snuff it at any moment.’

I smile politely as I sip my cup of coffee.  _Bastard_.  ‘…How is Millie?’ I ask the _current_ Lord Apsley.

Scratch pulls a face, the thick red skin above his eyebrows wrinkling.  ‘I barely see the woman these days.  Lives in Italy,’ he replies, shaking his head. 

 _Excellent_.  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear it.  Marriage is–’

Scratch releases a throaty chuckle.  ‘Lord no!  It’s not what you think… and completely off the record by the way,’ he warns, pointing the blazing end of his cigar at me.  ‘You heartless hack.’

I raise my hands in defence.  ‘I would _never_.’  Well.  Not _again_ , anyway.

‘How _is_ work?’ Scratch asks, interrupting himself.

I don’t really want to talk about it.  The truth is I’m floundering; all the doors that were open to me at the start of my career seem to have almost mysteriously been closed and bolted.  I’ve had no choice but to continue treading water at The Evening Standard.  ‘Good,’ I lie, before quickly steering the conversation away.  ‘You were saying about Millie...?’

Scratch smiles.  ‘Ah, yes.  We have this summer house near Salerno that I inherited from my father-in-law, an old villa that was something of work in progress until he made a project of it.  Anyway, Millie went out there April last year to get away from the London drizzle and never came back.  You see, not long after she arrived, she heard that a very good friend of hers went down with the Titanic.  _Terrible_ business; they wouldn’t allow the woman to bring her dog into the lifeboat, so the blasted woman stayed behind.  Gave it all up for the dog!  Imagine!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Anyway, since hearing of it all Millie’s had this most ridiculous and rather infuriating fear of water.’

I shrug my lips.  ‘Well, that's understandable, Scratch.  And Salerno’s hardly the worst place in the world to be stranded, I suppose...’ I reply, deciding it’s my chance to make a leap.  ‘…Speaking of which, I’m thinking of taking a trip through Italy myself this summer… get a look at all that ancient rubble.  I’ve a mind to see Pompeii… have you been?’  It's not that far from Salerno, after all.

Scratch grunts and waves his hand.  ‘Once you’ve seen one lot of ruins, you’ve seen them all.  Honestly, I can hardly tell the difference.  It’s the _weather_ down there that’s the real draw, Wally; it’s gloriously sunny _every_ day this time of year, you see.  And there’s something in the water which seems to agree with my skin.  Sorts it right out,’ he explains, gesturing with his cigar.  His knuckles are covered in thick scales of dry skin.  ‘I’m heading down there myself next month once the season’s over with the children in tow; they’re keen to see their mad mama, you know.’

‘How lovely,’ I reply with a rueful shrug.

‘…But, _there’s_ an idea!  You should drop in; our little villa’s only a day’s travel away from Pompeii.’

I hide my excitement within a cloud of cigar smoke.  ‘…Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on your family holiday–’

‘Nonsense, Wally!’ Scratch replies as he stamps out his own cigar; so aggressively that small sparks and flakes of ash dance around his crispy fingertips.  ‘I’d be _delighted_ for the company!  Honestly, Millie gets fed up with me after a week and Henry is pleasant enough, but he’s still only a boy.  And my oldest, Cee – she's an angel, but hardly a prime candidate for intelligent conversation. She’s far more interested in clothes and novels.’  He rolls his eyes but smiles fondly.  ‘…Millie wants her out next year.  The horror of it.’

I shrug.  ‘…Well, I suppose I could drop in for a few days.  You sure Millie won’t mind…?’

He snorts.  ‘That’s for me to worry about.  So, it’s settled then.  You’ll come, and I’ll have none of this “for few days” nonsense; you’ll stay for as long as you like,’ Scratch insists.

I smile and nod.  _Jackpot_.  ‘Alright then,’ I reply.

‘…You still a decent spinner?  Henry’s no batsman; he’s a buffet bowler at best,’ Scratch grumbles.  ‘Perhaps you can teach him how to bowl a googly while you're with us?’

 

* * *

 

I couldn’t disagree more with Scratch about the ancient rubble.  As it turns out it’s _not_ all the same.  Not at all.  It’s _spectacular_.  I start my travels off in Venice where I sip coffee in Café Florian and get lost down crumbling passageways that – in a lottery of sorts – either open out onto a piazza, a bridge or nothing but water.  The architecture is beautiful – it's all red bricks and white marble rising out of the cloudy green-blue lagoon – but the weather isn't quite as good as Scratch made it out to be; it rains every single day. So, I leave, and zig-zag my way across the new kingdom of Italy.  First, to the towers of San Marino, and then on to Florence to gaze at Venus’ pink toes in the Uffizi _(and everything else a little north of the ankle)_ , before heading down through the sunflower fields and vineyards of Tuscany to Rome.   And that's when the so-called _glorious_ sunshine appears; it shines every day – blazes overhead – and suddenly it seems my wool suits are far more suited to tepid London summers than balmy Italian ones.  I sweat.  Profusely.

And – just like that – I arrive at Pompeii; at those empty, ancient streets in the shade of Mount Vesuvius – currently snoozing.  I touch the columns and headless statues, and I smile at the stray dogs seeking shade in the shells of villas and bath houses, all the while marvelling at a city frozen in time.  The casts of ancient victims are curious, but curiouser still are the large, locked metal cabinets covering some of the walls.  Huge ugly things, with thick padlocks that quite spoil the crumbling charm of the place.  Unfortunately, my Italian isn’t quite up to scratch enough to understand what exactly the elderly guard says when I ask him what they’re for. 

He shakes his head as he walks off, grunting, ‘La porcheria!  Perverso straniero!’

When I return to my hotel that evening – a crumbling Pensione in the middle of Naples – I arrange a carriage for the following day to take me through the hills to Salerno.

As soon as the carriage rolls down the narrow mountain pass and I get my first view of the Tyrrhenian Sea, I immediately understand the draw.  It’s beautiful; winding roads climbing along the cliffs through clouds of purple bougainvillea beside sheer drops down to the impossibly blue ocean below. 

I _know_.  As a writer I'm all too aware of stuffing my sentences full of adjectives until it's bruised and purple, but on this occasion, there’s just no helping it.  The scenery truly is worthy of every adjective.  It reminds me of that old story from my studies about Aeolus, the Keeper of the Four Winds, who hid them in the cliffs of this coastline.  If I remember rightly, he met and married a water nymph called Cyane – the colour of the sea – who bore him six sons who became island Kings and seven daughters who became guardians of the seven seas of the Mediterranean.  One of them – I think – married Triton, the son of Neptune who was the Roman God of the Seas.

The journey doesn’t take quite as long as I was expecting – even by carriage.  I'm less than a mile from Scratch’s villa by three o’clock in the afternoon and worried that they won’t be ready for me, that is until I’m unexpectedly held up by a rock slide on the road and a herd of sheep attempting to pass from the other side.  After listening to my driver and the farmer arguing for twenty minutes, I realise that it's going to take a while and so decide to go for a stroll. I find a rough path leading off the road that heads down the cliff face to the sea through crops of flowering cacti.

It’s beautifully quiet once I'm below the road – the noise of the sheep and the torrent of Italian profanities fading away, drowned out by the sound of insects buzzing in the bushes and the lapping water.  I roll up my shirt sleeves against the heat as I stumble down the path until the rocky beach appears below me.  It’s empty and secluded; no one about but jagged rocks, clumps of seaweed and hovering gulls.  I fish for a pack of cigarettes and matches in my pocket and then settle myself on a rock, face to the sea.

There’s barely a ripple, let alone a wave in the water in front of me, and so I'm surprised when I hear a splash nearby.  I turn my head expecting to see a fish – but it's not a fish, it's a young woman. 

She breaches the surface and sweeps the water from her face and forehead with her fingers. Her long hair is the colour of wet sand and floats on the surface of the water around her bare shoulders like pond weed.  The water isn’t murky like the Thames – it’s as clear as the sapphires in Queen Mary’s crown – and I almost choke on cigarette smoke when I realise that the young woman’s swimming nude.

A gentleman would look away – spare the lady her modesty – and I should, I _know_ I should.  But would you?  And besides, _ladies_ don't tend to go swimming naked in the sea where everyone and anyone might see them, do they?

There’s something deliciously mythical and exotic about it – wildly erotic, even – and I find myself rooted when the sunlight hits her skin and a strange pattern across her shoulders and back.  The skin there is pale – bleached almost – and dappled with a scalloped edge.  Almost like scales.

Almost like a _mermaid_.

I can’t help watching her bob in the water as I smoke – my head conjuring up all those paintings I saw in the Uffizi of goddesses, Roman statues of nymphs and that old story of Aeolus and Cyane.  Venice was charming, Tuscany provincial and pure and Rome a delight – but this is almost like watching one of those many roman statues I saw along the way come to life.

She throws her arms back – face to the sky and eyes closed – the tips of her breasts rising up and out of the water as she floats, utterly unaware that she's being watched.

And I _almost_ get away with it, that is until there’s a shout from the steps leading up to the road – my driver waving his arms and pointing up, presumably to let me know that the road’s clear. 

The young woman immediately turns and swirls in the water to face the shore – first looking up at my driver before her eyes sink and settle on me, perched on the rock.  Her eyebrows arch and her lips part indignantly as she quickly ducks down under the current until only her head is visible. 

I smile.  What’s been seen can't be unseen, I think to myself as I stub my cigarette out on the rock and wander off towards the path.

 

* * *

 

I arrive at Scratch’s villa – Villa Sirena – in the late afternoon, once the sun has looped overhead and is threatening to disappear behind the cliffs to the west.  It’s a beautiful old building, a mix of medieval and roman with its terracotta arches and columns, its towers and crenellations, balconies with green shutters, and a terrace hanging over the cliff edge with panoramic views of the bay.  There’s a swimming pool hidden at the end of a rose garden in full bloom, as well as a small but well-maintained vineyard, and as I step out of my carriage, squinting into the hazy sunshine in an attempt to count the windows, I wonder whether I should have listened to my father when he had his complaints about me becoming a writer and how they earned so little.

I'm met by a row of servants standing outside the main door _(which resembles a castle door in size and armour)_ – two maids and a housekeeper, a footman, two valets and a butler – as well as Scratch, his wife Millicent, and a small boy who I assume must be Henry.

Scratch rushes over, his shoes crunching on the gravel.  He’s dressed for the climate in a white shirt, linen trousers with braces and a panama hat.  ‘No rock slides then?’ he assumes with a smile, extending his hand.

I smile.  ‘Just the one,’ I reply as I take his hand and give it a firm shake.  ‘And some sheep.’

Scratch takes off his hat and swipes at the sweat beading on his forehead.  ‘Still, you made excellent time! Come on, let me introduce you–’

While Scratch is clearly very happy to see me, Millie isn't; she hovers on the doorstep with her arms crossed as if I'm a massive inconvenience.

‘Millie, you remember Mr Thripp, don’t you?’ Scratch asks.

Millie purses her lips.  ‘How could I forget?’ 

She’s older than the last time I saw her; her once thick, honey blonde hair is a wiry and nest like, while her blue eyes look more like a puddle of drizzle than the deep pools that were once capable of drowning men.  The pale skin she was once known for is thinner and darker, freckled by the Italian sunshine. 

I approach carefully.  ‘I’m not interrupting your lovely holiday am I, Lady Apsley?  I’d hate to be a bother,’ I say as I gently take her hand.  Despite the heat, it’s cold.

‘Oh, not to worry,’ she snips.  ‘…It wouldn’t be the first time, now would it, Mr Thripp?’

I drop her hand.  ‘…True.’

Scratch chuckles.  ‘Now, now, Millie,’ he warns.  ‘Play nice.’

She narrows her eyes at him.

I decide to move on.  ‘Hello young man,’ I say, stooping to greet the boy in the sailor suit who must be ten or eleven.  ‘You must be Henry.’

He takes a step back – a step closer to his mother.

Scratch’s shadow looms over him.  ‘Where are your manners, boy?’ he practically growls.  ‘Answer the man.’

‘It’s alright,’ I say.  ‘…Let’s shake hands instead, like gentlemen.  How about that?’

Henry’s lips curl slightly, before he reaches out and gently shakes my hand.

‘Nice to meet you, Henry,’ I say, smiling.

As soon as he lets go, Millie takes his hand – wrapping her long fingers around it gently and squeezing.

Scratch clears his throat.  ‘…Good. Well, I _would_ introduce you to Cecilia, but she’s gone off somewhere in a grump.  So that’s that,’ he apologises.  ‘Anyway, let's get you settled shall we?’

Scratch disappears, leaving me – he promises – in Millie’s capable hands. After all, the villa belonged to her father and – more than just that – it’s her home now; she knows the history behind every corner and crevice.  I'm given the full tour – from the drawing room and breakfast terrace to the wine cellar and chapel – before she escorts me down a corridor off the inner courtyard, through a secret door in the parlour’s old panelling and up a narrow staircase into the South Tower. When she stops in front of a small, arched doorway and raises her eyebrows at me – muttering a curt, ‘Scoundrels first’ – I wonder whether I'm about to be imprisoned, but when I push the door it opens into a beautiful, hexagonal room with a vaulted ceiling and exposed wooden rafters.

There's a vast, stone fireplace with a Latin phrase – _“Mare fortis vocat”_ – chiselled into the hearth, while a more modern pair of glass doors lead out onto a balcony that hangs over the cliff face.

Millie strides across the room towards them.  ‘This _used_ to be the studiolo of Luigi d’Aragona – grandson of King Ferdinand of Naples,’ she says as she pushes the doors open and allows the late afternoon sea breeze to fill the room.  ‘He liked to come up here to enjoy the view while he studied works by the great thinkers of the renaissance...’

I nod with interest as I follow her into the room, along with the poor footman who drew the short straw and had to carry a suitcase full of souvenirs and my heavy typewriter up the staircase.  I’ve no desire for work, but then you never know when a story will present itself.  ‘It's quite the crow’s nest,’ I reply.

Millie’s lips twist into a half smile as she smooths a hand over the quilted bed spread.  ‘And prison; rumour has it that Luigi imprisoned his wayward sister Giovanna up here when he discovered her in bed with a servant,’ she says as she turns her sharp gaze on me, adding – with a shrug – that ‘no one really knows what happened to her after that.  Some say he murdered her, some say he enslaved her, but personally I prefer the idea that she hurled herself from that balcony over there into the sea rather than be his prisoner.’

I thrust my hands into my pockets and hold her gaze.  ‘…That’s quite a story.’

‘I thought you'd appreciate it,’ she replies, sauntering towards me.  ‘I know you writers can't resist a good scandal.  You sniff them out like hungry pigs sniffing out truffles.’

I raise my eyebrows as if she’s just drawn a sword from her skirts.  _Of course_ she's suspicious.  She's wondering why I'm here, that there must be some sinister motive behind my visit.  ‘...I'm here to enjoy the weather, that's all,’ I insist.  ‘I'm not here to… _sniff_ anything out.’

She doesn't believe me, and I can't really blame her.  ‘I don't believe you,’ she replies, practically shoving her way past me.  ‘We _both_ know how you can't resist squealing when you're onto a juicy one, Thripp.’

It's hard not to laugh; she always did have a fierce and funny way with words.  ‘Can't we just… get along?’

Millie stops in the doorway and sneers over her shoulder.  ‘No.  We can’t,’ she replies firmly, reminding me _(warning me?)_ that ‘slops are served at eight’ before she leaves, but not before punctuating the conversation with a piggish snort.

 

* * *

 

I stay in my room until the daylight ripens and softens like a peach, the juice sweet across the walls and the white, quilted counterpane spread across the bed. I tuck a pack of cigarettes into my dinner jacket and hurry down the narrow staircase to the dining room where the surprisingly intimate antique table has been laid out with silverware for four.

Millie – dressed in a frothy, pink gown that wouldn't be out of place at the opera – rolls her eyes and waves a gloved hand at the footman hovering nearby. ‘Prendilo. Lei non viene,’ she tuts, pointing at one of the place settings and telling him to take it away.

Scratch interrupts. ‘What's the harm in leaving it out for her?’ he grunts.  ‘She'll be here, she's simply lost track of time.’

Millie glares at him.  ‘Because it's not _done,_ Harry.  That’s why.  If she _insists_ on coming and going like the cat, then she can eat her dinner in the kitchen like one,’ she hisses. She snaps her fingers at the footman, ‘Prendilo, _subito_.’

The confused footman snaps into action, scooping up the silverware arranged around one place setting and disappearing with it.

I clear my throat, deciding that it's time to make them aware of my arrival.  ‘Good evening, both,’ I say with a smile.

Scratch turns and smiles cheerfully.  ‘Ah, Wally! Come and sit down,’ he greets, gesturing to one of the places around the table.  ‘Settling in alright?  How do you like your room?’

Millie narrows her eyes as I slip into the chair in the middle of the long table, between their seats at either end – Lord and Lady of the dinner.

‘…Your wife was telling me all about its fascinating history,’ I say as the footman hovers at my elbow and fills my glass with red wine.

Scratch scoffs.  ‘I don’t know about _fascinating_ ,’ he jokes, slumping into the chair at the head of the table.

Millie scoops up her glass.  ‘My _husband_ doesn’t care for history,’ she sighs before taking a delicate sip.

‘What’s the point in overthinking the past?’ Scratch replies.  ‘What’s done is done – that’s what I say; no use digging it up all the time.’

Millie eyes me over the sharp rim of her wine glass.  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ she says.  ‘There’s something quite satisfying about digging.  You never know what treasures you’ll find.’

It’s clearly for my benefit.  So, I send her bored look.

‘The _future_ ,’ Scratch goes on completely oblivious, ‘now _that’s_ something worth thinking about.  Motor Cars, my friend.  If you’re looking for something to invest in, _that’s_ where you should be throwing your money.’

Millie rolls her eyes and knocks back her wine.

‘American chap,’ Scratch goes on.  ‘He’s come up with a way of _mass_ -producing motor cars.  He’s brought down the time it takes to build just one car from twelve hours to just – ah – ninety minutes, I believe!  Or something equally as ridiculous.  _Ninety_ _minutes_ to assemble such a marvel of the modern age!  Can you imagine!  It’s going to bring costs down and make motor cars available to absolutely anyone who wants one.  Now _that’s_ something worth paying attention to.’

Millie chews her cheeks.

‘I could put you in touch with my broker, Wally,’ Scratch goes on, gesturing with his glass.  ‘If you’re interested in jumping in – I would if I were you.’

 _Ah.  Here we go_.  I was wondering how long it was going to take.  I’ve never invested in my life – I’ve never liked to take risks with my money.  But then perhaps that’s the problem.  I raise my eyebrows and hum, ‘Well, that’s… Why don’t you let me have a think about it?’

‘Well, don’t think for too long,’ Scratch warns, tapping the table with his fingers.  ‘Early bird catches the worm and all that.’

Millie tuts.  ‘Motor cars.  _Wretched_ things,’ she snarls.  ‘All that growling and spluttering.  You never see them around here, thank goodness.  They’d quite spoil the scenery.’

Scratch scoffs and looks at me.  ‘What a luddite she is, Wally,’ he complains.  ‘You know, I’ve been trying to convince her to electrify this place, but she won’t have _any_ of it.’

Millie puts her glass down a little too firmly.  ‘No.  I _won’t_.  It’s ghastly, Harry,’ she snaps as a maid and footman light candles around the room, daylight rapidly fading.  She frowns sadly, ‘…Electricity, motor cars, telephones… Steel ships!  All these new inventions and technologies.  _You_ might think they’re improving the world but all they’re doing is killing its mystery and magic.  And once that’s gone there’s no getting it back.’

Scratch pulls a face.  ‘Magic!’ he chuckles.  ‘Good God, Millie!  You can’t kill something that doesn’t exist in the first place!’

She arches her blonde eyebrows and looks down.  ‘…How right you are,’ she mutters.

I sort of understand what she’s getting at; so much is changing at breakneck speed, and with war on the horizon it does sometimes feel as if the old world is coming to an end.  ‘I don’t think she quite literally meant “magic”, Scratch,’ I say, leaping to her defence.

She glares at me in a, “don’t presume to understand me” sort of way.  I remember that look from long ago.

‘For example, whilst I was in Pompeii I noticed they had all these garish metal cabinets covering some of the old walls.  They quite spoiled the mystery and charm of the place, and for what?  Well, I hardly know.  Electricity, perhaps?’

Millie narrows her eyes at me.  ‘…Did you look inside them?’ she asks as she holds her wine glass out to be filled by the passing footman.

I shrug.  ‘They were locked, and I’m sorry to say that my Italian’s not up to the task of asking,’ I reply with a smile.  ‘I know how to say please and thank you and to ask for the bill and that’s about all!’

Her lips curl slightly around her freshly filled glass.  ‘…Well, that’s a shame.’

Scratch chuckles.  ‘That’s a lot more than I know, and I’ve been coming here for years!  Everyone important around here knows a spot of English anyway, and if they don’t then they damn well should!’

I glance at Millie as she gulps down her wine.

Dinner is a strange feast.  Octopus carpaccio with capers to start, followed by spaghetti with clams and sea dates fresh from the Tyrrhenian Sea.  The room is filled with the smell of fresh lemons and salty brine, and Scratch complains bitterly through every course that he misses English cooking and the lack of proper meat because, ‘blast it, we’re people not pelicans!’  Millie on the other hand cleans each plate, leaving only shells and a light glazing of oil behind.

Once the plates are cleared, dessert appears; flaky pastry shells in the shape of lobster tails filled with almond paste and cream which Millie explains are a local delicacy – invented in a monastery just along the coast.  Just as my spoon cracks into the pastry however, the door to the hallway suddenly swings inwards behind me and someone steps inside. 

Scratch straightens in his seat and smiles.  ‘Ah!  Good evening, stranger!’

Millie’s scowl is thunderous as she glares up and over my shoulder.  ‘No!  _Absolutely_ not!  You’re too late!’ she snaps.

I feel a hand grasp the back of my chair and the sweet smell of coconut oil waft from behind.  ‘… Actually, I think I’m perfectly on time – is that sfogliatelle?’

Scratch laughs as he brushes pastry flakes from his dress shirt.  ‘Wally, this is our daughter, Cecilia,’ he says, gesturing to the young woman moving around the table behind me.

I turn my head just as she strolls behind him, stooping to kiss his cheek before she slips into the chair opposite mine.  She’s wearing one of those fetching summer lawn dresses made of white lace with short sleeves and a blue silk sash tied around her narrow waist.  The lace hangs loosely from her shoulders, as does her hair – which is blonde just like her mother’s – albeit slightly darker and sandier – and tied in a messy, damp plait.  And that’s when I see it, the bleached, patterned skin across the nape of her neck – so strange and familiar a mark.  Soft scalloping across her spine and shoulders.

When she slides into the chair and I catch her deep blue gaze, I grip my dessert spoon a little tighter.  Those eyes that had peered across the water at me earlier that same afternoon, full of surprise.

‘Cee, this is Mr Walter Thripp, an old friend of mine from Cambridge,’ Scratch informs her.

She blinks at me, open-mouthed.  ‘Ah,’ she says, snapping her mouth shut.  ‘Papa did mention you.  It’s so nice to put a name to a face,’ she adds with a knowing smirk before wrinkling her freckled nose and tutting at her mistake, ‘I mean a face to a name!  You must excuse me, I’ve soaked up a little too much sun today.’

The Honourable Miss Campbell.  There’s not a bit of her father about her, but I can see Millie in there; she’s got the same wicked glint in her eyes – but it’s softer somehow.  There’s something about their shape that belongs to neither parent; they’re larger, and the heavy – almost lazy – lids are all her own, as is the slight bump on the bridge of her nose. 

I nod my head.  ‘Lovely to meet you, Miss Campbell,’ I reply politely before returning my gaze to my dessert.

Millie huffs.  ‘Where on _earth_ have you been all afternoon?’ she demands of her daughter.

Cee flashes her blue eyes innocently.  ‘…Town,’ she replies, before batting her eyelashes at the waiting footman.

‘Have you _seen_ your shoulders!’ Millie complains.  ‘You haven’t been using your parasol, have you?  You’ve coloured right through the lace!’

So that explains the strange mark; the lace of her dress has worked like a stencil for the strong, Italian sunshine.

Cee fiddles with the lace neckline of dress and shrugs – the sleeves dropping slightly and baring more of her gleaming, freckled shoulders.  ‘I forgot,’ she replies, before smiling up at the waiting footman.  ‘Potrei avere uno di quelli, per favour, Gio?’ she asks him, pointing at my plate.

The footman’s lip curls and he bows his head indulgently.  ‘Certo mia, signorina.’

‘Grazie, Gio,’ Cee replies, clasping her hands together excitedly.

Millie snaps.  ‘No, you _cannot_ have one!’

Cee smiles at her mother, almost delighted at her outburst.  ‘Why not?’

‘…Because you missed the other two courses, that’s why!’ Millie barks, shooing away the footman with her gloved hand.  ‘One cannot simply cheat and skip straight ahead to dessert!’

Scratch snorts, his mouth full of sfoglia-whatever-it-is.  ‘Why not?  I wish _I_ had!’

Cee send her mother a victorious look, while Millie in turn sends Scratch a threatening one.

I focus on eating.  The room feels like it’s closing in, probably due to the oppressive heat of the evening; the sun set a while ago, but its warmth lingers on.  The family spat only adds to it, as does Cee’s occasional flashing glance across the table at me.

Millie stabs her dessert with her spoon and shakes her head.  ‘You won’t be able to get away with this sort of behaviour once you’re presented, you know,’ she warns, arching her eyebrows.

Cee rolls her eyes.

Millie goes on, ‘Or _that_!  This time next year you’ll have completed your first season – and you may very well have emerged from it with a ring on your–’

Cee interrupts with a frustrated groan that hits me in the gut, ‘This time next year we’ll be at war with Germany, mama, and no one will care about wearing feathers and curtseying in front of the King.  Who knows, maybe there won’t even _be_ a King!’

Scratch scoffs.  He’s already finished his plate and is waving the footman over for a second serving.  ‘What nonsense!’ he says, using his napkin to wipe pastry from his lips.  ‘There’s been talk of war for thirty years – it’s nothing but scaremongering!  Nobody wants a war!’

Cee raises her eyebrows at him.  ‘Well, of course nobody _wants_ a war, papa,’ she drawls, ‘that doesn’t mean it makes it any less likely that it’s going to happen.’

And – just like that – I get drawn in.  _Wonderful_.  ‘What do you think, Wally?’ Scratch asks.  ‘Lot of tosh, wouldn’t you say?’

He clearly missed my article in the gazette.  I smooth down my shirt and sit up straight.  ‘No, actually, I agree with Miss Campbell,’ I reply, nodding at Cecilia.  ‘In fact, I’m quite surprised we’ve avoided one so far.  It’s on the horizon, I’ve no doubt.  I even wrote an article about it.’

Cee narrows her eyes at me, her lips curling.

Scratch’s eyebrows bounce.  ‘…Well, even if it _does_ happen – I doubt it’ll affect the season!’ he chuckles.  ‘No, no.  You’ll be all pearled and feathered-up with the rest of them come March, Cee, I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, that’s supposing Mama – _somehow_ – overcomes her fear of water and is there to present me,’ Cee sniffs.

Millie slams down her spoon and glares at her daughter, who glares back defiantly.

‘What?  I can’t very well just present myself, now can I?’ Cee teases.  ‘I’ll be like a poor china doll; all crumpled on the carpet in a puddle of silk because I didn’t have anyone propping me up and making my limbs move.’

I can’t help but smirk.

Scratch frowns.  ‘Cee…’ he warns.

Cecilia shrugs.  ‘But I just don’t see the point in it, papa!’ she insists, flapping her arms.  ‘I should have been presented _years_ ago when everyone actually cared about all that ridiculous pomp!  Besides, if there _is_ a war, there probably won’t be any men _left_ to marry by the end of it.’

Millie scowls.  ‘Cecilia!’ she snaps.

Cee blinks at her.  ‘It’s true!’ she insists.  ‘There is going to be a whole generation of unmarried women who’ll have absolutely no choice but to look after themselves – to earn their own money and own their own property – and yet everyone expects them to still do as–’

Scratch’s chair screeches back across the parquet flooring as he stands up and towers over the table.  ‘That’s _quite_ enough!’ he shouts.  ‘To bed with you.  _Now_.’

Cee looks up at him for a moment, then sighs.  ‘Fine,’ she says as she slips from her seat.

‘And apologise to our guest,’ he tells her.

I raise a hand.  The truth is that _I’m_ the one who should be apologising.  ‘Oh, there’s really no need–’

She looks down at me.  ‘Not at all.  So sorry if I offended you in any way,’ she says before she leaves the room, adding a soft ‘Goodnight’ from the doorway.

I’m almost certain she’s sarcastically referring to this afternoon’s incident rather than her boisterous table manners.  My spoon hovers over my plate.  I _daren’t_ continue eating – wouldn’t that be rude? – but I find that I can’t simply sit there in silence either. 

I glance between Scratch – who’s pinching the bridge of his nose – and Millie – who’s shaking her head.  Eventually the silence becomes too uncomfortable to bear and I find that I simply _have_ to fill it with something.  Maybe I should offer to leave first thing.  ‘…Listen, perhaps I should–’

Scratch stops me.  ‘Sorry about that, old chap,’ he says, lifting his large hand.  He scratches the back of his head, ‘She’s proving quite the challenge at the moment.’

I smile and shrug.  ‘Not at all,’ I reply, wondering if they’re aware of her passion for swimming.  ‘She’s clearly very… _spirited_.’

Millie snorts at me.  ‘How uncommonly tactful of you to say so.’

Scratch tuts, ‘It’s _my_ fault, really,’ he admits to me, leaning on the table.  ‘Millie could see she was a little wild right from the start and wanted her out the minute she turned sixteen… but, I felt it too soon – I wasn’t ready to let her go.’  He smiles and sighs at me.  ‘You don’t have any daughters so you wouldn’t understand; they’re such a treasure and – well – I _know_ how men can be.’

Millie doesn’t seem to agree.  ‘For goodness sake!  She’s twenty- _five_ , Harry!’ she reminds him, standing up.  ‘I keep _telling_ you!  We really cannot tarry with this a _moment_ longer!  She should have been married off years ago!  Tongues are _already_ wagging.’  For a moment it’s as if she’s forgotten that I’m there and when she catches my gaze checks herself.  She smooths down her skirts and takes a breath, avoiding my curious gaze.  ‘Now.  You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid I’m quite tired.’

‘…Of course,’ I say with – what I hope is – a sympathetic nod.  ‘Goodnight.’

But she’s already halfway out into the hallway.

Scratch looks at me from over the rim of his wine glass.  He raises his eyebrows.  ‘She finds it all very difficult.  You know, being away.  I do hope I can count on your discretion, Wally,’ he says, knocking back what’s left of his drink.

I quickly reply, ‘Of course!  Scratch, I wouldn’t _dream_ of–’

He closes his eyes and shakes his head vigorously, ‘I know!  I know!  I’m sorry to even _suggest_ that you would,’ he replies.  ‘And I’m sorry if it’s ruined your night!’

I wave a hand.  ‘Not at all,’ I tell him, joking that ‘I’m actually quite partial to a bit of dinner theatre!’

But the joke doesn’t quite land in the way I was hoping when Scratch smiles awkwardly and hums in response, rubbing a hand across his jaw.  Oh well.

‘…Shall we go for a smoke?’ I offer politely, dropping my napkin onto the table in front of me.

Scratch frowns.  ‘…Actually, I think might go and see if Millie’s alright,’ he replies, doing the same before he gets up from the table.

I blink as I stand up, ‘Oh.  That’s–’

‘You’ll have one for me though, won’t you?  Although, I’ll have to ask you to take it outside,’ Scratch replies, ‘I hope you don’t mind; Millie doesn’t care for the smell of it, you see.  Ruins the tapestries, she says.’

‘Quite alright.  I fancy a stroll.’

Scratch claps me on the back.  ‘Good man.  I’ll see you tomorrow.’

It's almost a relief to step outside into the night air after such a spectacle, and although the blazing heat of the day has dwindled away, the stone columns and bricks fondly remember the sunshine.  They cling onto its warmth.  Insects chatter within the garden bushes and topiaries, whilst the smell of bougainvillea and roses perfumes the air.  I lean my shoulder against one of the columns as I stare out into the dark and over the clifftops, wedging a cigarette between my lips. When I rummage around in my pocket for the box of matches, however, I realise with a groan that I must have left them up in my room as I was rushing to make dinner on time.

‘Blast it,’ I curse as I snatch the cigarette from between my lips.  I was looking forward to it.

‘…Need a light?’ someone asks.

I straighten and turn my head in time to see Cecilia emerging from the shadows, one arm folded under the other, a cigarette smouldering between her long fingers. I thought I was alone.  I _thought_ she’d gone off to bed.  I avert my gaze.  ‘…Miss Campbell.’

There’s a smirk in her blue eyes as she steps alongside me and offers the end of her own cigarette.

I narrow my eyes at her, ‘…Do your parents know you smoke?’ I ask as I light the end of my cigarette with hers.

Once it begins to smoulder, she flashes her blue eyes up at me.  ‘…I’d say there’s quite a lot they don’t know about me,’ she says with a shrug as she steps away and leans her body against the next column along.  ‘I prefer it that way.’

I can’t help but stare at her.  And she knows it; her eyes pin me as she raises her cigarette to her lips and slowly sucks.  As she lifts her chin and whispers a stream of smoke into the night air, my cock stirs.  I wonder whether this is what her mother was like all those years ago when she was society’s darling.  Wild, wilful and wanton – running from ballroom to bedroom.  No wonder the King fell to his knees for her.

I have to look away, and when I do I _know_ that she’s grinning.

‘…Am I shocking you?’ she asks, amused.  She releases a breathy, smoky chuckle.  ‘I’m surprised; you didn’t seem shocked at all when you saw me swimming naked this afternoon.  In fact, you seemed quite pleased with yourself.’

 _Ah_.  I look back at her – at that devious look in her eyes – and shrug my lips.  ‘…I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ I reply plainly.

Her gaze sharpens.  Clearly, she wasn’t expecting that.  She seems to panic for a moment, her blue eyes wide and dancing before she swallows that second thought and gathers her wits.  ‘…You’re either being very shy or very sly,’ she says. 

I glance down at my cigarette.  ‘…I’d prefer to say that I’m being _sensible_.’

She watches me for a moment before stubbing her cigarette out on the column and flicking the butt off into the garden.  ‘…Oh, don’t be boring,’ she says, stepping towards me.  ‘I _saw_ you.’

I look down my nose at her.

She gazes up at me through her lashes for a moment, then frowns and sighs, her dappled shoulders dropping.  ‘Have it your way then.’

‘…Have _what_ , my way?’ I reply.

She pulls a face.  ‘…Whatever game you and I are playing,’ she says as she begins strolling off towards the house.  ‘Although I should warn you, I’m a sore loser.’

My gaze follows her.  ‘I believe you.’

She stops and turns.  ‘…Oh!  I almost forgot to tell you; Mama doesn’t want you here,’ she informs me lightly, as if she’s letting me know what time breakfast is served.  ‘…I overheard her and papa arguing about it.  I thought you should know.’

I’m not surprised and roll my eyes slightly.  ‘Thank you.  I’m aware,’ I practically groan.

‘…I wonder what you did to make her hate you so much?’ she wonders out loud.  She grins at me, then walks off.  ‘…Goodnight, Mr Thripp.’

‘…Miss Campbell.’

 

* * *

 

That night, I dream of falling from a great height into a deep and dark ocean ravaged by storms.  I’m not frightened; I don’t fight as my head slips beneath the waves and my body sinks slowly down to the sea bed.  I find that I enjoy the silence and the way the moonlight dances on the surface of the water – like a glimmering chandelier.  When I sink into the sea bed, I get up to find myself in an underwater ballroom full of men dressed in lobster tails waltzing with women wearing pearls.  Millie – Queen of this strange, underwater realm in her crown of coral – banishes me at once for treachery and betrayal and all at once I’m swept away in a net, cast off from an empty cove.  I smooth a hand through my wet hair and brush the sand from my clothes, and when I glance along the shoreline, I see Cecilia stepping naked from the waves like a goddess.  I struggle to my feet calling her name and when she looks at me, her lips gently curl.  But then someone else calls her name – that footman, Gio, who’s similarly naked and built like stone statue – and she runs to him without a second thought, pulling him to the ground and pressing her body against his.

I wake up with sand in my eyes, salty sweat on my skin and a throbbing cock.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get comfy; it's another long one. I was planning for this to be the last chapter, but... the word count kind of got out of hand...!

The following morning – as promised – I teach Henry how to bowl. He doesn’t seem all that interested when Scratch regales him of tales from our cricketing days over breakfast  _(neither does Millie)_ , but once the plates have been cleared away and we get past the basics he seems to enjoy throwing balls at his father; he’s delighted – as am I – every time one of them flies off into the garden or plops into the swimming pool and Gio – the footman – has to go and fetch it. Henry laughs and waves at his mama, who applauds from her chair under an umbrella on the lawn.

Scratch hands the bat to me and suggests we switch over just as Cee emerges on the patio. She’s wearing a gauzy but simple candyfloss-pink dress with tassels on the hem that swing as she strolls onto the lawn. Her sandy-coloured curls are pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, while a few strands float around her face – caught by the light sea breeze. She stops, squints and smiles up at the sunshine for a moment, before crossing the lawn and taking a seat next to her mother who immediately complains that she’s not wearing a hat.

I feel her eyes on me as I take the sweaty bat from Scratch and take up my position in front of the stumps.

‘See if you’ve still got it, eh, Wally?’ Scratch grins as he snatches the ball from his son and – quite literally – shoves the poor boy aside. ‘Let papa show you how it’s done, hm?’

Henry hovers for a moment and squints – either from the harsh sunlight or his father’s harsh treatment – before he rushes off across the lawn to his mother.

‘I thought you did  _very_  well, sweetheart!’ she says with a smile, pulling him into a hug. ‘Come and have something to drink – what would you like? Gio will fetch it for you.’

I focus on Scratch as he puts some distance between us before beginning his run up. But then, out of the corner of my eye I notice Gio buzzing around Cee like a wasp. She smiles at him as he stoops down to meet her request for a cold drink and I find myself immediately gripping the bat a little harder. Then – all at once – Scratch is bounding towards me, swinging the ball over his head and through the air. Rattled, I slog the ball and send it flying over the terrace and off the edge of the cliff.

There’s a moment of silence before Scratch roars with laughter. ‘…Good God, Wally!’ he shouts. ‘Were you aiming for England? You hit that one to cow corner!’

I sweep the sweat from my forehead and lean on the bat. ‘…Tad out of practice, I think.’

There’s clapping coming from the lawn and I can’t tell whether it’s sincere or sarcastic. Cee laughs, ‘But, isn’t the whole point of the game to hit the ball as hard as you can?’ she asks, standing up and brushing down her skirts.

Scratch shrugs as he reaches into his pocket for a spare ball. ‘…There’s a little more poise and precision to it than that, Cee,’ he says, scrubbing the ball on his trouser leg.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘…I think papa just insulted your batting skills, Mr Thripp,’ she teases.

I chuckle. ‘I think you’re right. Still, I was always more of a bowler anyway.’

Scratch agrees. ‘And a ruthless one at that!’ he says, throwing the ball up and catching it. ‘ _Un_ -readable!’

‘Quite like my articles then,’ I joke, and Scratch laughs.

Millie, however, doesn’t seem to find it funny and immediately decides she’s had quite enough sunshine for one day. ‘Shall we go inside for a bit, Henry?’ she asks, practically dragging the boy along.

We watch as she vanishes into the house, Scratch dropping the ball into my hand with a smile. ‘Shall we swap over?’

I nod, but just as I’m handing the bat over, Cee shouts, ‘Can  _I_  have a try?’

Scratch pulls a face and chuckles. ‘…I don’t think your mother would approve,’ he replies. ‘And why would you want to? Young ladies aren’t interested in men’s games.’

Cee strolls over. She takes the bat from me with a smirk, her fingers brushing mine, ‘Not sure  _that’s_  entirely true,’ she mutters, before strolling over to stand by the wicket. ‘Besides, mama’s gone inside.’

Scratch – of course – finds it completely endearing; he smiles indulgently and shakes his head as he drops the ball into my hand. ‘Be gentle with her, Wally,’ he whispers.

I blink back at him as he follows Cee over to the wicket and gives her a quick lesson. She nods and rolls her eyes as he shows her how to hold the bat and how to stand; she’s eager to get going and eventually nudges him away.

Scratch steps to the side. ‘Slow and underarm, I think,’ he calls to me with a nod.

Cee objects. ‘No! I don’t want any special treatment just because I’m a woman – throw it properly!’ she insists, gardening with the top of the bat. She grins and squints into the sunshine, ‘…Hard and fast.’

 _Bloody hell_.

I rub my forehead with the back of my hand as I back away and put some space between us. I take a moment to calculate my throw; I decide to aim slightly to the left  _(so there’s no chance of hitting her)_  and bounce it a few steps in front of her so it  _should_  – in theory – head straight towards the middle of the bat. But it’s all utterly pointless when I catch Cee’s devious gaze, her nose wrinkled as she shuts one eye against the sun and keeps the other trained on me. I take a breath and begin my run, carefully – and smoothly – swinging the ball overhead and sending it flying towards her. I’m expecting her to tense and close her eyes at the last minute as the ball comes at her, but she doesn’t; she keeps her eye on it and – a second too late – swings the bat and clips the edge of it. The ball flies up into the air between us and all it takes is a quick lunge forward for me to intercept and catch it.

I can’t seem to resist it – old habits die hard after all – and I grin at her as I hold the ball up in my fist. 'Out.'

Cee stares at me in surprise as she leans on the bat and drops a hand to her hip. ‘…What does that mean?’

Scratch laughs. ‘That means you’re out! Caught  _and_  bowled!’

‘Well, that’s just stupid,’ she snorts.

I roll the ball along my arm, knock it into the air with my elbow, then catch it. ‘That’s cricket.’  _She clearly wasn’t lying about being a sore loser._

Scratch shrugs and smiles. ‘I did warn you that you wouldn’t like it, sweetheart,’ he tells her. ‘Why don’t you give it another try?’

She drops the bat at her feet and dusts her hands off. ‘…No,’ she says. ‘I think I’ll take a walk into town instead.’

Scratch scoops up the bat and stops her. ‘…Alright, but you can take Wally with you,’ he suggests.

Cee stops and turns.

I panic. ‘…Oh, that’s alright, Scratch, I’m perfectly alright sticking around here and–’

‘Nonsense! You haven’t had a chance to look around yet,’ Scratch insists, walking towards me – swinging the bat over his shoulder. ‘Cee’s  _always_  about there; she can give you the tour. Show you her favourite sights.’

Cee looks at me. ‘I don’t mind,’ she says with an innocent little shrug.

Scratch pulls me aside. ‘Be a pal, Wally. I worry about her going down there on her own all the time,’ he whispers.

I frown slightly, glancing awkwardly at the cricket bat clasped in his fist. I’m having flashbacks of that time he thrashed an umpire. ‘…Alright.’

‘Good man!’ Scratch smiles, clapping my back. ‘Keep her out of trouble!’

*

We stroll down the steep, winding pathway – zig-zagging the practically sheer and rocky cliff-face until we reach the small town. It’s just as quaint as you’d expect it to be; small, sandstone houses with blue and green shutters and window boxes full of blood red geraniums. There’s a church the size of a shed – with a tiny bell tower, splintered wooden doors and a painting of the Virgin Mary cradling the Christ child within an arch that perhaps used to be a window. There’s a post office, a butcher, a baker and a small market shaded beneath the largest olive trees I’ve ever seen. It’s the early afternoon and the sun is boring down; not only can I feel the sweat beading on my forehead, but I can taste it on my lips. I’m absolutely dreading the walk back up to the villa.

Cee – on the other hand – looks completely serene, and beautiful. In her pale pink dress, she reminds me of the blooms of bougainvillea crawling over the terracotta rooftops and through the crumbling walls along the side of the path we’re walking; rooted to these cliffs. She’s strolling beneath her parasol with the hint of a smile on her lips as she points out the various buildings and a little of the history behind the place – reciting stories no doubt she’s heard from her mother about Turkish pirates.

We stop at small shop – a mellunari – selling watermelon halves and eat them in the shade of a large tree outside the church.

Cee looks at me. ‘…So,’ she says, her tongue swiping the juice from her lips. ‘Are you going to tell me why my mother hates you or do I have to use my powers of persuasion?’

The melon juice runs down my knuckles as I take a bite. I frown at her; I  _can’t_  possibly tell her. Her mother hates me enough already. ‘…I’m afraid I wrote something rather ungallant about her, a long time ago. Stirred up some gossip,’ I reply, hoping it’s enough. ‘I’m afraid she’s never quite forgiven me for it.’

Cee’s eyebrows bounce and she looks away. ‘…Ah,’ she replies, nodding. ‘You mean, about her and my  _real_  father.’

I blink at her. ‘Your  _real_  father?’

Suddenly it all makes sense; the rushed marriage to Scratch was intended to cover up  _more_  than just an affair. I had no idea. And there it is, the truffle Millie mentioned the other night – plonked right in my hand. If I brought it to my editor at The Standard, he’d salivate all over his desk.

Cee sends me a sidelong glance, her blue eyes flashing as she mistakes my silence. ‘It’s alright. I know,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Mama told me the truth a few years ago and swore me to secrecy. I’d already figured it out myself, of course. I’ve always felt like a bit of a cuckoo.’

I scoff. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

She leans closer and her lips curl, ‘I’ve got his eyes, apparently,’ she whispers. ‘As well as his appetite for mischief…’

I can’t help but smile at her. ‘But not his beard or belly, thank goodness,’ I joke, and when she laughs it’s like the soothing sound of rushing water. ‘...He was a great man. A great King.’

She looks out to sea. ‘So I’m told.’

I’m not sure what else to say, so I focus instead on finishing my watermelon slice.

Cee looks down at hers. ‘Mama might hate you because you’re the one who shed light on her little scandal, but she’s never let me forget that I’m the  _thing_  that caused it in the first place,’ she says, frowning. ‘I ruined her chances.’

‘I’m  _sure_  that’s not true,’ I reply. And what chances, exactly? Surely Millie never thought she’d actually marry the King? If anything, Cee saved her – brought her to her senses and forced her to remedy the situation quickly.

‘You don’t  _know_  her,’ she warns me. ‘It’s why she wants me married off as soon as possible – before I ruin her for a second time. She’s got her eye on matching me up with one of the Harmsworths.’

I look at her suddenly. ‘The  _Harmsworths_?’ I repeated, surprised.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Do you know them?’

It was difficult to be a writer and  _not_  have heard of them. They were new money, brothers who’d started off as hacks and now practically  _owned_  Fleet Street and most of the morning and evening papers I’ve always dreamed of writing for. My employer – The Evening Standard – isn’t a part of their empire, however.

‘I know  _of_  them,’ I told her. I was just surprised Millie was interested in such a match; it seemed a bit of a low stoop.  _Lucrative_ , but low. ‘I wasn’t aware that your mother associated herself with their sort.’

‘Oh yes,’ Cee replied. ‘Mama’s good friends with  _Mary_  Harmsworth – Viscountess Northcliffe. She’s been – very quietly – sending her money to help her in her charity work for… well, ever since I can remember actually.’

I frown; something stinks. Millie’s always been very opposed to the new money crowd – other than Scratch of course, but even that was the reluctant, rather desperate move of a cornered cat.  I’ve worked for the rags for a long time; ‘charity work’ sounds a lot to me like a payoff to keep the lid on a scandal – or for a favour.

And then it all makes sense, and suddenly I feel as though I’ve been hit by lightning; it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d bargained with the Harmsworths to have me blacklisted. The thought scorches me, infuriates me.

Cee raises an eyebrow at me, as if I’m struggling to keep up. ‘ _Charity_   _work_ ,’ she repeats, with air quotes. She scoffs and shakes her head. ‘She’s ridiculous.’

 _She’s a fucking bitch_. I shrug my lips, ‘I think she probably just wants what she thinks is best for you,’ I suggest, biting down on my anger. ‘Doesn’t want you making the same mistakes that she did.’

Cee looks at me and smirks. ‘…It’s  _far_  too late for that, I’m afraid,’ she tells me in a whisper. ‘I’m not going to stop now. I’m having  _far_  too much fun.’

I drop the melon rind at my feet and wipe a hand across my jaw.

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘…I’m shocking you.’

‘Do you always prey on your father’s guests?’ I ask, frustrated.

She hums. ‘Only the ones who prey on me first,’ she teases, wrinkling her freckled nose.

I stare at her for a moment longer than I should. ‘… _That_ ,’ I whisper,‘was an accident.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she replies with a nod. She looks at me and bites her lip, ‘…A happy one?’

I sigh impatiently.

‘–Because you certainly seemed very happy with yourself,’ she goes on, creeping closer. She’s relentless. ‘You  _looked_  like all your fantasies had suddenly come to life.’

I stand up and take a step away from her. I  _have_  to. ‘I think we ought to head ba–’

She grins. ‘I don’t mind,’ she tells me. ‘I’m flattered, actually.  _Intrigued_ , even. None of the men I’ve been with have ever looked at me that way before.’

I turn to face her.

She sets the rind of her melon down on the wall beside her and brushes off her hands. “…You’re doing it right now,” she says, standing up.

I check myself but can’t seem to pull my gaze away as she strolls towards me. I thrust my hands into my pockets, just as I was taught to do by my mother whenever I was around delicate, breakable things.

‘All the society boys assume I’m some flimsy, fragile thing – pure and saintly,’ she explains. ‘But the truth is that I’m more Messalina than Madonna.’

I fix my gaze. ‘…I can see that.’

Cee stops just in front of me. She looks up, ‘…I’d love to know what you were thinking when you saw me,’ she says, a curious look in her blue eyes.

I look down my nose at her for a moment, then sigh. ‘…I thought you were a mermaid,’ I admit, and I can’t seem to stop the smirk tugging at my lips.

*

She takes me down to the beach –  _her_  beach – just as the sun loops overhead and leaves the secluded bay in shadow. There’s barely a breeze and so the water’s calm enough to appear mirror-like – black silk lapping the shoreline. Cee stabs her parasol into the sand, kicks off her shoes and sheds her stockings near a rock and then rushes to meet the water. She scoops up the hem of her dress and holds it in one hand, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear as she steps into the water.

She shuts her eyes as it laps around her ankles, cool and clear.

I stand a little way back with my hands firmly plunged into my pockets as I watch her paddle.

Cee glances over her shoulder and grins. The skin around her calves glistens everywhere the water has touched. ‘…It’s cold,’ she tells me, wrinkling her nose a little.

I smile.

‘…My mother used to bring me down here to swim when I was little – before Henry,’ she says, facing out to sea, and as she swirls her toes through the water it ripples and rushes. ‘We’d steal away from papa and spend whole afternoons in and out of the water… picking shells and digging our feet into the sand.’ She scoffed and shook her head. ‘When she said that it was time to go back – back home – I’d swim all the way out until my toes couldn’t touch the bottom anymore and she’d have to swim out to fetch me –  _drag_  me out. She wouldn’t mind, she’d find it funny – she’d laugh and call me a nymph.’

It was hard to imagine Millie fishing for shells and laughing at her mischievous daughter. Laughing at having buried a scandal and screwed the hack who threatened to shout about it.

Cee rests her chin on her shoulder and catches my gaze, and there it is – that mischievous glint. ‘…Do you swim, Mr Thripp?’ she asks as she removes a pin from the back of her head, letting her hair tumble.

I raise my eyebrows and try to think; I know how to swim – in  _theory_  – I just can’t remember the last time I did. ‘I used to,’ I say, smiling down at the sand sticking to the sides of my shoes as I recall a bit of horseplay in the River Cam that one, particularly hot summer when I was a student.

When I look up, Cee’s crossed her arms and is slowly lifting her dress up and over her head. She throws it behind, and it falls in a bundle on the sand just in front of me. She turns to face me and steps out of the water – droplets dripping from her toes.

My eyes drop to her pale pink corset and slip. My breath sticks in my throat and I send her a warning glance, ‘… _Cecilia_.’

She peers back at me innocently –  _playfully_  – as her hands drop and she begins roughly unclasping her corset. ‘…What?’

I have visions of Scratch thrashing me with his cricket bat until it splits and splinters, but still I continue to stare as Cee peels away her corset and throws it on top of her dress, leaving her in only a thin, cotton slip. So thin that I can see the outline of her naked body moving beneath it.

I’m in trouble; if it was any other woman I’d jump at the chance, and knowing that, my brain’s already lopped south of my belt. But Cee isn’t any other woman. She might as well be Botticelli’s vision of Venus locked in a gold frame, hanging high on the wall of the Uffizi; she’s been called a treasure by her guardian, and while you can certainly steal a glance at her, you’ll be dragged out in handcuffs if you dare to touch her.

Stealing her –  _taking_  her – is altogether different matter, and a tantalising one.

My gaze hardens and I breathe out through my nostrils. ‘…Cee,’ I plead, shaking my head. ‘… _Don’t_.’

Her lips curl as she turns her back on me and takes a step into the water. She gathers the lace hem of the slip and smoothly drags it up and over her head, her loose, frayed curls bouncing down her bare back.

I rub a hand across my jaw. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ I mutter as I look around, checking to see if there’s anyone watching us.

We’re alone.

‘I can’t come down here and  _not_  swim,’ Cee says as she wraps an arm across her body, closing her fingers over the curve of her breast as she turns her body to speak to me.

I rake a hand through my hair as she strolls into the sea – the water lapping around her thighs.

She swishes her hands from side to side – skimming her fingertips over the surface – as she wades out to waist-height. She stops, takes a breath and then dives under with a splash. She vanishes for a moment – the dark water swallowing her up – before she breaks the surface with a smirk. Water glides down her nose and cheeks and clings to her eyelashes.

She stands up; the tide ripples around her belly. She drags her hair over one shoulder and water rushes from the ends over her breasts.

I stare; she’s beautiful. And, she’s all mine – if I want her.

Cee scoops a palm-full of water and tries to splash me but the drops don’t quite reach; they smatter across the sand just shy of my shoes. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she scoffs, sweeping her hands up and over her forehead. ‘…Come and get me.’

*

I run a comb through my hair before I leave my tower bedroom for dinner. It’s still slightly damp – darker than its usual faded blonde – and it smells of brine – of sand and saltwater. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and notice a flash of arrogance in my eyes that wasn’t there before, and something twisting and tugging at my lips; it’s hard to tell whether it’s a smirk or a snarl.

I’m surprised when I’m the first to reach the dining room, but I’m soon joined by Millie, who storms in like a gale dressed in a netted evening gown the colour of bruises.

I smile at her and casually lean an arm across the back of one of the chairs.

She looks me up and down, then scowls. ‘Why do you look so pleased with yourself?’

I shrug my lips. ‘…Wouldn’t  _you_  like to know.’

For the first time since I arrived, she looks genuinely frightened.

‘I wasn’t aware you were close with the Harmsworths,’ I say, unable to help myself.

Millie’s eyes dance across my face for a moment. She scoffs and walks around to the other end of the table, ‘Who told you  _that_?’

I tut and place a hand over my heart. ‘Ah, ah. You know I can’t reveal my source.’

She reaches out and straightens the silverware in front of her with a bored sigh. ‘Well, I’m afraid they’re mistaken,’ she replies. ‘I haven’t anything to do with the Harmsworths.’

I turn and raise my eyebrows at her, gripping the back of the chair. ‘…Are you  _really_  going to make me do it?’

She glares at me. ‘…Do  _what_?’

I lean forward slightly and pig-snort at her from the opposite end of the table.

Millie’s eyes widen; it’s a threat and she knows it.

She doesn’t have the chance to respond to it, because Scratch and Cee suddenly appear in the doorway – carrying with them a lingering laughter left over from a joke told out in the hall. The tension is palpable, and they glance between us as if they’ve stumbled out of a saloon onto a showdown in the street.

Scratch blinks. ‘Everything alright?’

Millie forces a smile. ‘…Fine, darling,’ she replies. She gestures to the empty chairs, ‘Shall we?’

I pat Scratch’s shoulder as I let him to take the seat at the head of the table before I slide into the chair next to it – straight opposite Cee. She catches my eye through her lashes as she sits, smiling softly as she plucks the napkin from the table and smooths it over her lap. She’s wearing a blue, chiffon gown the shade of water; it cascades beautifully over her shoulders and tucks tightly around the waist. Her hair is still damp and pinned loosely to her crown, sandy tendrils falling around her face.

Scratch calls for wine and then rubs his hands together excitedly. ‘What’s on the menu tonight?’ he asks. ‘Not more of that horrendous pelican fare, I hope.’

Cee holds out her glass as the wine is poured. ‘Smells wonderful,’ she says.

I glance down the table at Millie. ‘…Smells a lot like truffles to me,’ I announce with a grin, and savour her expression all the way through the first course.

*

Much to Scratch’s relief, the cook spares the net and serves up a saltwater and shell-free roast chicken with chanterelles and white wine for the main course – with an added side of friarelli, just as a little reminder that we’re dining in southern Italy, not in England. Still, Scratch finds  _something_  to complain about, and if it’s not the chicken, it’s the bloody suffragettes. He blathers on about ‘that horrid woman who ran out in front of the King’s horse and ruined the derby’, and that ‘they’ll never get what they want all the while they’re breaking windows and starving themselves in prison’. Cee disagrees; she argues passionately that they’ve no choice but to cause trouble all the while pig-headed politicians refuse to listen to them.

Millie seethes in silence; she pushes her food around the plate and throws back glass after glass of wine, all the while avoiding every glance I throw in her direction. It’s only when dessert arrives – a very rich chocolate and almond cake called Torta Caprese – that she looks up and ends her silence, smiling as she picks up her fork.

‘So, Mr Thripp,’ she says, stabbing into her slice of sponge cake, ‘How long do you plan on staying with us?’

Scratch chokes on cake crumbs. ‘Steady on, Millie!’ he splutters, beating his chest. ‘Poor Wally’s barely settled in!’

Cee agrees. ‘That’s a little rude, mama, don’t you think?’ she says, a forkful of cake hovering near her lips.

Millie looks at me and shrugs. ‘Oh no – please – I meant no offence,’ she lies. She looks at Scratch, ‘I just wouldn’t want our guest to feel obligated to stay any longer than he’d like to. I’m  _sure_  he has other plans; places he’d like to go, things he’d like to see. We don’t want to hold him hostage, now do we?’

Scratch pulls a face. ‘…I suppose not,’ he agrees. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like Wally, but if you’ve other plans, then–‘

I raise my eyebrows as I reach for my wine glass. ‘Actually, I  _haven’t_  any other plans–’

Cee’s lips curl as she chews, and I feel my blood warm.

‘–Pompeii was the last stop on my list. So, I’m free to linger for as long as you’ll have me,’ I say, raising my glass before I take a swig.

Millie looks positively thrilled; her lips twist as she shoves in a mouthful of cake, as if it suddenly sours on her tongue.

Scratch cheers. ‘Here, here!’

I nod, ‘The Standard aren’t expecting me back until the end of July, so–’

Millie sighs almost sympathetically as she neatly places her fork on the plate and dabs her lips with her napkin. ‘Oh. Back to writing obituaries?’

I narrow my eyes at her. ‘…Sort of,’ I reply as I scoop up a piece of cake and smirk as I pop it into my mouth.

She scowls.

Scratch – who’s completely oblivious to our mudslinging across the table – chuckles loudly. He turns to Cee, ‘D’you know, when he first started out, Mr Thripp here was known for always being the first to get the scoop on the latest society scandal,’ he tells her as he drops his fork.

Cee hums. ‘So I’ve heard,’ she says, her gaze slippery.

‘What was it they used to call you, Wally?’ Scratch asks as he picks up his napkin and dabs the crumbs from his lips.

I chuckle. ‘The Bloodhound.’

Scratch joins in, ‘Ah, yes! The  _Bloodhound_!’ he exclaims, throwing down the napkin. ‘Sniffing out scandals left and right!  _No one_  was safe! No one!’

Cee looks at me and smiles. ‘The Bloodhound!’

I smile and shrug, ‘It was a very long time ago,’ I tell her, before chancing a glance at Millie.

She’s staring down at the table, cradling her glass of wine.

‘D’you know,’ Scratch goes on, ‘I remember a conversation I had with one of the chaps in Boodles in the late eighties – he’d recently taken up with a Countess. He told me she was so paranoid of their affair being sniffed out by The Bloodhound that she’d go so far as to check under the bed before they–’

‘Harry!’ Millie snaps. She slams her glass down and gestures obviously at Cee, who rolls her eyes.

‘Oh honestly, I’m not a child,’ she groans into her wine glass. She looks at her father, ‘Before they jumped on the bed. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it papa?’ she adds, feigning innocence.

Scratch laughs, clapping the table with one hand. ‘In not quite so many words, sweetheart, yes,’ he says.

Cee smirks at me over the rim of her glass; she makes it all too clear that she’d quite like to do a little jumping herself later.

I shrug my lips. ‘Well, I never had to sink to quite that level to get a scoop.’

‘D’you know,’ Scratch goes on, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘I personally – as well as a few others – were always convinced you had a source on the inside. That someone in society was feeding you those stories out of spite… because –  _well_  – and please try not to take offence at this, but how else could you have possibly known the things that you–’

Millie slams her glass down. ‘I  _must_  say, I’m very surprised that Bari isn’t on your itinerary, Mr Thripp,’ she interrupts, changing the subject. ‘It’s on the other coast of course, but it’s not that far really and well worth the visit. It’s a  _beautiful_  little city; so much there to see.’

I look at her.  _Oh, it’s just too good!_  Watching her squirm is better than the chocolate cake, and almost better than Cecilia’s heated looks. ‘…Actually, there’s quite a bit more around here that I’d quite like to see,’ I reply, enjoying myself. ‘I think I’ve done enough touring and wandering around ancient ruins.’

Scratch waves over Gio and taps his empty wine glass. ‘Ah yes, how did you find things this afternoon?’ he asks. ‘Did Cee show you everything?’

I practically choke on my last mouthful of cake. ‘…She certainly did.’

Moments after Cecilia had beckoned me into the sea, I’d followed. It wasn’t that I’d given up resisting, it was more that I’d convinced myself that I was just going in for a swim and that nothing else  _had_  to happen. But as soon as I shed my clothes and stepped into the water – Cee’s eyes on me the whole time – I knew full well that I was sinking, and suddenly found that I didn’t care whether I drowned. Why starve myself on dry land to stay true to old loyalties? If it had been any other girl I wouldn’t have even hesitated.

I swam out to meet her, treading water. The sea slurped around her shoulders, occasionally lapping up onto her lips as she watched me float towards her. ‘I knew you couldn’t resist,’ she said, grinning.

I stole a glance below the surface – into the blue – glimpsing her body through the halo of blonde hair suspended in the water around her. The refracting light danced over her belly and breasts – while her legs kicked to keep her afloat.

She drifted a little closer, parting the water between us with her hands. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she told me, gazing longingly at my lips. ‘…I’m not going to drown you,’ she promised, before flicking her fingers underwater and splashing me.

Something in her words irritated me; I was tired of games. I snatched her wrist and dragged her through the water towards me, feeding her arm over my shoulder and around my neck. ‘I’m a strong swimmer,’ I told her as I smoothed my hands down her back, my fingers bumping along her ribs.

There seemed to be a flutter of hesitation in her blue eyes as she settled her body against mine – her breasts bobbing between us. ‘…I hope so,’ she said, her fingers playing with the wet strands of hair at the nape of my neck. ‘I can’t bear an incompetent doggy paddler.’

I chuckled as I brushed my hands over her hips and under her thighs – wrapping them around my waist. It was so easy; her limbs were almost weightless beneath the waves. ‘…Well, I’ve good technique,’ I assured her.

Her lips parted and she sighed as my cock brushed up against her sex.

‘…And I think you’ll find my forward stroke satisfying,’ I told her before I kissed her.

And that was all.

For now, at least.

We kissed, we touched each other beneath the water – hands feeling blindly beneath the waves. She clung to me like flotsam as my fingers worked between her thighs – teasing and coaxing her until she came, gasping for air. And when the water was cold and the cove completely in shadow, we swam to the shore – panting like two shipwreck survivors. We gathered our clothes, dressed slowly and then began the long stroll back up the cliff side to Villa Sirena, with wet hair and sand sticking between our toes.

Millie’s gaze sharpens. ‘If Cee showed you everything there is to see, then there can’t be much left to hang around for,’ she sniped.

I catch Cee’s gaze just as she lifts her wine glass to her lips; she lowers the glass lip onto the tip of her tongue before she drinks, her blue eyes pinning me.  _Jesus_. ‘…On the contrary, I’ve barely scraped the surface; there’s still  _plenty_  more to explore,’ I drawl in response. ‘…And d’you know?  What I’ve seen already I find so charming that – who knows – I might require a second, third or even a fourth viewing.’

Millie scowls. She’s angry with me but has absolutely no idea why.

Scratch chuckles. ‘Quite right! It’s hard not to be seduced by this place,’ he says. ‘Once you’ve come once, you’ll want to come again and again and again.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘…Indeed.’

*

Millie decides to badger me after dinner. She catches me in the corridor outside the dining room, after I’ve stubbed out my cigarette and left Scratch to finish his cigar on the terrace, and long after Cee has retired to bed, claiming that she felt like having an early night.

‘Look,  _Thripp_ ,’ she spits, shoving a finger in my face; the way she sounds my name replicates the crack of a whip. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to or what you  _think_  you know, but if you so much as  _dare_ –’

I grab her wrist – which surprises her. ‘I’ll tell you  _exactly_  what I know, Millie–’

‘Take your hand off me!’

‘–I know your daughter is the owner of a rather regal-looking nose,’ I snap, ‘and I think we both know that she didn’t inherit it from your husband.’

Millie’s eyes widen.

I shove away her hand and nod slowly,  _smugly_. ‘Oh yes,’ I insist. ‘And there’s more; I know that somehow the Harmsworths got wind of that fact and you’ve paying them to keep it out of the papers ever since.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘And don’t think I don’t I know that you had them blacklist me,’ I go on, firing shot after shot at her – point blank – until she has to take a step back. ‘An act of war that’s had me treading water at The Standard for twenty fucking years.  _Twenty_  years, Millie!’

She bites her lip and shakes her head. ‘Walter–’

‘You  _ruined_  me!’ I hiss.

She throws her hands up and shoves me back. ‘You ruined  _me_  first!’ she reminds me. ‘And after everything! We had a deal, Walter. I gave you access to every secret and skeleton buried in the cellar of London Society for the small price of keeping mine. I did  _everything_  you asked of me –  _everything_! I betrayed some of my closest friends for you – for your  _beastly_  column!’

I scoff. ‘You did  _very_  well from our little arrangement, don’t kid yourself.’

‘Until you reneged on it!’ she practically sobbed. ‘When I could no longer satisfy your bloodlust!’

Whereas I’d once felt pity for her tears, now I only felt anger. ‘Oh please. I won’t feel guilty; I spent twenty years feeling guilty for what I did! For  _nothing_!’ I snarl. ‘Well, you’ve  _more_  than had your fill of revenge – now it’s my turn.’

Millie looks panicked.

‘I assume Harry doesn’t know about Cecilia – about the payments,’ I say. ‘So you’re going to do exactly what I say, otherwise I’ll tell him  _everything_.’

She sniffs back her tears and smirks. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,  _Wally_ ,’ she replies. ‘The only reason I haven’t told him already is because I don’t care enough to do so.’

I shrug. ‘Then I’ll not only sell that story but I’ll write another myself – not just about Cecilia and her royal daddy,’ I threaten, jabbing a finger at her. ‘I think some of your friends and the old society lot would  _love_  to know who it was who fed them to The Bloodhound.’

I leave her sagging against the wall with my threats hanging in the air. And having declared war, I retreat to my tower – angry blood throbbing in my veins – where I find Cee sitting in the middle of my bed. She’s leaning up on one arm reading one of the books I brought along with me, her evening gown puddling around her. The balcony doors are open, soft night air breathing in and out of the room.

Her eyes rise over the pages of the book as I storm into the room and slam the door behind me. She smiles and shuts the book when I blink at her in surprise. ‘…My room’s too hot to sleep in,’ she explains as she drops the book behind her and swings her bare feet over the side of the bed.

I lock the door.

‘…I hope you don’t mind,’ she says as she pads towards me.

 _Mind?_  ‘Not at all,’ I reply as I tug on my necktie and loosen my collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double entendres, EVERYWHERE. I just couldn't help myself, reader. ;-) Stay tuned for part three (...how the hell did this turn into a three-parter????)!


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, reader? This story has been so damned demanding - I could go off on so many subplots and sequels and prequels... but I won't. I can't! So voila, here's the finale. Enjoy! :-)

The following morning, the weather takes a turn and the hot Italian summer seems to lull. For the first time in days, the sun doesn't show; the skies are grey and moody – clouds moving fast overhead. Without that steady blaze the air is much cooler; the insects hush and a slight breeze whispers across the lawn and ripples over the surface of the swimming pool. Gulls swoop and cackle as they ride the wind, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say there was a storm on the horizon.

'My  _God_ ,' Scratch says as he snatches up a slice of toast from the rack in the middle of the table. 'The weather's positively English today!'

It might be a little overcast, but it's not enough to disrupt the daily routine of breakfast on the terrace. The table is set alongside the pool and is cluttered with the usual fare of fresh fruit, bread and pastries – the household staff swarming like flies around the empty plates and cups.

I nod as I sip on my much-needed cup of coffee and skim over last week's paper  _(shipped over from London)_. 'Yes. Looks like we're going to be rained off at this rate.'

Scratch shrugs his lips. 'Well, it wouldn't be the worst thing, I suppose,' he says as he scoops up a little butter with his knife and roughly smears it over his slice of toast. 'I could  _certainly_  do with a break from the heat; it was uncomfortably hot last night – too hot to sleep!' He waves the buttery end of his knife at Millie, ' _You_  struggled, didn't you? Barely slept at all I gather, from all that tossing and turning.'

Millie looks up from her sliced grapefruit and nods. By the way her lips twist as she chews, it's almost too sour to swallow.

She certainly looks tired, and although she's as impeccably turned out as she always is – in a pressed white blouse, with her faded blonde hair neatly twisted – there's a dark shadow under her eyes that's hard to miss. When she catches me looking at her she sends her gaze over the cliff face, and I suddenly somehow doubt that it was the heat that kept her awake all night.

Cee looks up at the sky and wrinkles her nose. 'Oh, I don't know,' she says with a smile, 'all these clouds will probably burn off in an hour or two. It's like that sometimes; looks like a write off first thing but turns out blissfully balmy by the afternoon.'

Her blue eyes flash at me over the rim of her teacup as she takes a sip and I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips.

Much like her mother, Cee also spent the night wide awake tossing and turning, but certainly doesn't look the worse for it. Her lids and lashes are heavy and her movements are a little slower as she reaches across the table and sets down her cup. Her sandy hair is ruffled and plaited messily over one shoulder and there's a soft flush shining beneath her skin; she looks undone, but beautifully so.

Scratch rips off the corner of his toast with his teeth. ' _You_  weren't too uncomfortable last night, were you Wally?' he asks, chomping and spraying crumbs across the table. 'Not too hot up in that tower of yours, was it?'

I fold the newspaper and toss it onto the table. My smile is wide. '...Not at all,' I reply, 'Exactly the opposite, in fact.'

There was the most splendid breeze through the balcony doors whilst Cee and I went at it into the early hours. She was eager and impatient from the start, sliding off the bed to greet me, and reaching up onto her toes to press her lips against mine. She shed her gown and underwear as she strolled to the bed, like a butterfly wriggling from its silky chrysalis; as she lay back on the sheet, she propped herself up on her elbows and bent her knees slightly - swinging her thighs open and closed like wings as she watched me shrug out of my dinner jacket and open my collar. 

I flopped my jacket alongside her and then knelt at the foot of the bed. She was beautiful, laid out like a feast before a starving man, and although I was desperate to devour, I was also determined to savour. I wanted to ruin her; I wanted her to forget all those society boys – past, present  _and_  future – and to think only of me instead each time she fell into bed with another.

Holding her gaze, I brushed my lips along the inside of her ankle, climbing north along her calf and the soft flesh along the inside of her thigh until I reached the top. She gasped as I grabbed her hips and tugged her further down the bed, throwing her leg over my shoulder as I pressed a kiss to the soft, blonde hair growing over her mound. From the heavy, hesitant way she looked down at me as I sunk my mouth between her thighs, I sensed she'd never experienced such a thing before, and the flash of resentment I felt towards every man who'd been before me was immediately replaced by the delight of being the first. I nudged her thighs apart, tilted her hips upwards and then lapped and licked at her folds until the soft mewls in the back of her throat became open-mouthed moans, and when I sucked down on the pearl hidden amongst them, she scissored her thighs and fisted the sheets - arching off the bed as she came.

If she'd been eager before, after that she became frantic. She reached between her thighs and dragged me on top of her, tearing at my shirt and tugging on my belt until her hands swooped over my bare skin. She locked her legs around my back and sighed when I entered her, panting as I quickly built pace and then swung her on top.

She moved like the tide – rolling and rising – riding each swell and surge and then slamming down from the crest like the hull of a ship in a storm.

We'd carried on into the early hours – until Cee kissed me and crawled from the bed with heavy limbs and a satisfied sigh. I watched as she gathered up her clothes, dressed in the dark and then tiptoed barefoot from the tower.

I catch Cee's heated gaze across the breakfast table before I turn to Scratch and say, 'There's actually quite a nice breeze up in that tower.'

She bites her lip as she spreads a little jam over her toast.

Scratch nods. 'Good, I'm glad. Well, what's everyone's plan for the day?' he asks, brushing the crumbs from his fingertips. 'I  _was_  hoping to take the boat out, you know – show you the coast, Wally – but it's probably not the ideal day for it if it's threatening to storm.'

'There's always tomorrow,' I reply. I'm relieved; I'm not bothered about being stuck on a boat with Scratch all day. 'I actually thought I might do a little writing, if that's alright. Only seeing as the weather's not up to much.  I don't want to seem rude.'

Millie looks at me sharply.

Scratch raises his eyebrows. 'Not at all! Not at all!' he replies. 'You working on anything in particular at the moment, old boy?'

I grin, glancing between Millie's worried gaze and Scratch's oblivious one. '...Something. A book, perhaps. It's too early to tell,' I reply, shrugging my lips. '...I've an idea brewing, certainly.'

Scratch smiles and nods.

'Seems about time I branched out. I've been paddling in the journalism pool for too long,' I say. 'Time I ventured out into deeper water, I think.'

Millie narrows her eyes. 'Do watch you don't drown, Mr Thripp,' she warns.

Scratch chuckles, considering it nothing but a joke from a tired and tetchy wife.  'Indeed; books are a risky venture.'

Cee hums as she scoops up her teacup and takes a sip. 'You know – speaking of books – I feel like catching up on my reading today...' She looks at me, 'I might take my book and find a  _quiet_  corner of the garden – somewhere I can really enjoy it without being disturbed.'

I smile; it's an invitation. 'What an  _excellent_  idea,' I reply. 'Perhaps I'll do the same once I feel I've got enough words down.'

* * *

 

I've carted my old Underwood typewriter halfway across Europe in anticipation of this moment. I brought it along with me because I thought I might  _finally_  have an opportunity to focus on my writing - and not the war speculation or the society obituaries I'm used to writing for work.  _My_  writing. All those short stories and novels I said I was going to write when I finished up at Cambridge – all those great plans for publication before I grew up. I thought that – what with all the classical architecture, renaissance artwork and beautiful scenery – I might be inspired to write, but the truth is that the typewriter's been gathering dust in its leather carry case ever since I left London.

Until now.

It's funny; it's not the Italian scenery or the architecture that finally inspires me to dig the old thing out – but my own past, seen with aging eyes and fresh wisdom. I'm ready to purge it onto the page and then publish it for all to see.

But mostly I just want to beat Millie.

I set it up on an old, wooden vanity table facing the balcony and open the doors to allow the sea air to fill the room. It's not the soft summer breeze I've grown used to over the past few days; it's more imposing somehow. It tears into the room and fills it with its presence like a disobedient child or a mischievous spirit – pulling on the curtains, playing with the crystals dangling from each lampshade and rattling the tower door – banging on it like a prisoner longing to be released. The room literally feels like its alive -  _breathing_.

There's an anxious moment – just before I sit down – when I can't quite remember how to feed fresh paper into the typewriter or even how to write at all, but eventually – after lighting up a fresh cigarette and staring at the empty page – the words come, as they always do. Soon, I'm not in Italy anymore or even the same century; I'm flung back to The East Room of The Criterion in Piccadilly, and a booth away from prying eyes. I can almost smell the sliced lemon she'd slip into her teacup and swirl with a spoon as she spilled secrets across the table, and I can see the way her lips would twist in disgust at how I'd pocket the last couple of marrons glacés to eat at my desk later. I'm so in thrall that I almost reach for one out of habit as I type. I feel as though I'm resurrecting a part of myself.  The Beast.  The Bloodhound.

Three hours and thirty pages pass by before I look up and notice the colour of the sky. The clouds haven't burned off as Cee predicted; in fact, they're darker. And the tower isn't just breathing anymore, it's practically snarling.

I'm unrolling the paper from the typewriter when I hear a timid knock at the tower door and I look up expecting to find Cee standing there, come looking for me.

But instead, Millie steps inside and then shuts the door. The handle escapes her grasp at the last, however - the wind stealing it and slamming it for her.

I raise my eyebrows as I set the paper down on the pile with the rest and plonk the smouldering ash tray I've been using as a paperweight on top. Still, the wind tries to hard ruffle them.

'...It's freezing in here,' she says, brushing her bare arms as she walks towards me. 'How can you stand it?'

I shrug my lips. 'You've been away from England too long,' I tell her. ' _This_  is pleasant. Bracing, I'd say.'

She glances at the pile of paper and then at me. '...Not to me, it isn't,' she replies, and I'm not entirely sure she's talking about the weather.

'What brings you to my tower?' I ask, shoving my hands into my pockets.

She forces a smile, but it's all wrong. It doesn't suit her. 'I came to...' She takes a breath and sighs. 'I came to request a ceasefire.'

I practically laugh; she  _must_  be desperate. 'You're the one who declared war, Millie, not me–'

'I  _know_ _,_  and I made a mistake!'

'A mistake!'

'Yes! And you've  _certainly_  made your fair share, so–!' she snaps at me before she has to close her eyes to calm herself – to remind herself that before there can be a ceasefire, all weapons  _must_  be lowered.

'No, mistakes are accidental.  _Unintentional_ ,' I growl at her.  'But you very much intended for me to suffer. You wanted it. You  _longed_  for it. Didn't you?'

She looks up at me and visibly swallows her anger.  She nods, 'I did.'

I sneer.  'And did you enjoy it?'

She holds my gaze.  '...Yes,' she replies softly.  'But it was survival, Walter. Are you really suggesting you wouldn't have done the same had you been me?'

I'm not sure how to answer that.

Millie sighs.  'How can I make it  _right_ , Walter? There must be  _something_  I can do to stop whatever it is you're planning on.'

I scoff and move to turn away, but she reaches out and grabs my hand.

She almost drops it as soon as she touches it. '... _Please_ ,' she insists, the trademark ice in her frosty blue eyes melting away.

I feel my resolve weaken. '...Why should you  _care_  what I do with all this, Millie?' I ask. 'You're not part of the old world any more – you've imprisoned yourself here, far from London –  _far_  from all that gossip. Just like that story you told me when I first arrived – like Luigi d'whatever's–'

'D'Aragona,' she corrects, rolling her eyes.

'–His sister, yes. The one who hurled herself from that balcony over there rather than be imprisoned by him,' I continue, pointing at the open doors and stormy sky. 'You don't  _see_  anyone from the old days, not anymore; I doubt you even read the papers that your husband insists on shipping in. All the major players are gone or or forgotten, Edward the Caresser's dead–'

She sneers, 'You still think you're  _so_  clever for coming up with that, don't you?'

I sigh.  We can't help hating one another. It's chemical. She's water, I'm oil.

'Perhaps you should have it chipped into your tombstone!'

'...Perhaps I will,' I reply as I shove past her; after all, I promised to meet with Cee in the gardens. And I'd much rather do that than spend another minute fighting a battle I've already won.

Millie spins, and – seeing her opportunity for peace slipping away – says, 'What about my daughter? What about  _her_  reputation? She's innocent in all this, Walter!'

Ignorance is bliss for everyone but mothers. I raise an eyebrow, 'I get the impression that she doesn't care as much about about her reputation as you do.'

'She will once it's gone!' Millie insists, panicked. 'Children only cry and pine for the toys they've lost.'

I'm indignant on Cee's behalf. 'She's not a child,' I say, reaching for the door handle.

'I could contact the Harmsworths,' Millie suggests quickly. 'Perhaps they might make you a position – make you editor of one of their–'

I stop at the door, 'Editor?'  It's an insult.

She blinks at me, 'Well, yes. I thought–'

'You thought wrong,' I reply, storming back. 'I'm The  _Bloodhound_ , remember? You can't make a dog drop a juicy leg of mutton from its jaws by offering it a chicken bone.'

Millie glances at the pile of papers. She steps towards them and brushes her thumb from corner to corner, 'And I suppose  _this_  is your leg of mutton?'

I grin. 'I thought it high time I write my memoirs – I fancy they'd make a good book, so I've written a proposal,' I reply, shrugging my lips. 'I've a friend who works for Duckworth – the publishers. I'm going to send him those pages once I'm back in Blighty. He's got a nose for fresh meat.' In fact I've already written the letter outlining the contents – it's resting on top of the pages, waiting to go.

Millie's eyes linger on the letter as she quickly plots a new course. 'Then... I see I must offer you some other morsel,' she sighs as she steps closer.

I frown at her. '...Like  _what_?'

She reaches up and cups my cheek. Her hand is cold. '...You tried to kiss me once,' she whispers. 'After one of the Corinthia's Midnight Follies – remember? Teddy went off with that French trollope and you offered to take me home – you were  _kind_  to me.'

I grab her wrist. 'I remember,' I reply, rolling my eyes. 'You slapped me.'

She stares at my lips. 'You liked it.'

I laugh as I shove her hand away. 'You overestimate your charms, Millie,' I tell her as I once again head for the door, and this time I  _refuse_  to be drawn back in.

Millie glares at me - she's not used to being refused.  'Walter,  _please_ ,' she begs.

I look back.  '...Have a read,' I suggest, pointing at the pages.  'Tell me what you think.'

The wind rushes though the door, slamming it behind me.

* * *

Storm clouds sag over the cliff tops as I search the gardens for Cee. The trees sway as the wind picks up, and some of the garden blooms have shed their colourful petals across the pathways. There's rain – a fine mist – in the air.

I find her on the far side of the grounds, lounging near a high wall with her book on the ground next to her. She's teasing the tail end of her plait as she reads, stroking it over her lips and chin.

At the sound of my approaching footsteps, she drags her gaze from the page and watches me as I stroll over. Her smile is slow. 'I was about to give up hope,' she says as she dog-ears her page. 'How's the writing going?'

I shove my hands into my pockets and grin. '...It's going well,' I tell her. ' _Very_  well, in fact.'

Cee shuts her book and sits up. 'Well, it better be a bestseller,' she pouts. 'I won't be kept waiting for anything less.'

My gaze lingers. 'Heaven forbid.'

She springs to her feet and walks to meet me – clutching her own book to her chest. 'What's it about?' she asks, smiling. 'Your book.'

I hesitate and glance off to the side. '...It's just a proposal – a  _sample_  – at the moment,' I reply, nodding quickly at the book she's carrying, 'What's that you're reading?'

She glances down at the cover. 'The Peacock,' she tells me, 'by this D.H. Lawrence chap – d'you know him?'

I shrug my lips and shake my head. 'I don't.'

She looks up at me and smirks. '...It's quite steamy, you know.'

'Oh, is it now?' I drawl.

'Mm hm,' she replies, biting her lip as she reaches up and touches my cheek.

I snatch her wrist, and for a split second I see Millie staring back at me.

Cee blinks at me. '...What's the matter?'

I scoff as I shake my head. '...Nothing,' I say, holding onto her wrist as I glance over my shoulder and then – once I'm sure we're alone – back her roughly into the wall. 'Nothing.'

Her gaze drops from my eyes to my lips as her back collides with the bricks and she drops her book to the ground. I pin her hand above her head and tease my lips against hers. She whimpers, 'I can't stop thinking about last night.'

I grin. 'Neither can I,' I reply before I kiss her firmly – forcefully. As I kiss down onto her throat I feel the muscles move beneath my lips as she swallows and sighs.

'...What's going to happen?' she asks, lolling her head back against the wall as I loosen my grip on her wrist and smooth my hand down her arm and onto her chest.

I look at her. '...What,  _now_?' I breathe, amused. 'I think you know.'

She laughs, 'No,' she groans as I palm her breast. 'I mean, once the summer's over and we're back in England. Back in London.'

I stop and pull back a little – peering down my nose at her.  _Fuck_.

Her blue eyes dance nervously and for the first time I see innocence swimming in them.

I drop my hand to her waist and lean my forehead against hers for a moment. 'Well... what would you  _like_  to happen?' I ask her.

She avoids my gaze and shrugs. '...I don't know,' she says, but I'm not sure it's the truth.

'Then why worry about that now?' I ask her. 'Hm?'

She nods as she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me.

Surely she  _knows_  that nothing more can happen; Scratch would thrash me with his cricket bat if he found out and besides,  _she's_  in the midst of a rebellion while I'm embarking on a path of revenge. The two make for passionate bedfellows, but soon tire of one another. We're  _all_  guilty of taking away trinkets, treasures and souvenirs from our travels – desperate to prolong that feeling of being on holiday – but it's never the same once you bring it home. In the end it becomes nothing more than clutter.

No; it's always best to leave the shells on the beach where they belong and simply take home the memory instead.

I'll certainly remember  _this_  moment and the ones that follow; how Cee scrambles to unbuckle my belt as the storm settles in overhead, and the smell of the rain on the grass, on her skin, on her hair. And the thought of Millie stewing away in her tower.

* * *

When I return to the tower, the balcony doors are swinging and slamming. The curtains are wet and the marble slippery, and some of my clothes – flopped over the back of a chair near the balcony – are soaked through.

I roll my eyes and curse Millie.

I'm surprised that my book proposal has survived the torrent; I'd half expected her to fling the pages from the balcony and watch them ride on the wind. But, what's the use? She knows that she'd simply be destroying a copy; I can write it again and again and again if I have to. The words can be destroyed; the memories, though? Not quite so easy.

I wash and dress for dinner – as usual – but when I enter the dining room, I find the table empty and the air un-perfumed by smells from the kitchen. Even the candles are unlit.

I frown and wonder whether I've mistaken the time, but a brief glance at my watch quickly puts that theory to rest.

I make my way to the parlour and find Scratch pacing, whilst Cee perches on a chaise in her dressing gown staring at the marble floor.

'...Everything alright?' I ask.

Scratch stops and sighs. 'Oh, Wally – good, you're here,' he says, rushing towards me.  'We've had to put dinner on hold, I'm afraid.'

Cee looks up at me; her blue eyes are wide and worried.

I panic. '...Has something happened?'

Scratch settles a hand on my shoulder. 'Millie's gone missing,' he explains.

'... _Missing_?' I scoff.

'No one's seen her – not us, not the staff,' Scratch replies.  'It's... very odd.'

I rake a hand through my hair. '...Well, surely she's just gone for a walk in the gardens or popped into town for something–'

'In the middle of a storm though?' Scratch interrupts. 'No one even saw her  _leave_ ; it's quite the mystery.'

Cee shakes her head. 'It's very unlike her to go out without telling anyone – especially given the bad weather.'

I glance at her and feel a strange feeling curdling in the pit of my stomach. I can see the balcony doors swinging and slamming.

Scratch looks at Cee, then steers me aside. '...When was the last time you saw her?'

I take a moment to decide whether to lie or to tell him the truth. '...She came to see me up in the tower this afternoon,' I tell him. '...She wanted to see how my writing was going.'

He nods. 'She didn't mention anything about  _going_  somewhere this evening?' he asks, desperate. 'Anything at all?'

I hold my breath and shake my head. '...Sorry.'

Scratch looks down and nods slowly, and as he walks away I can hear my heart beating in my ears; I know in my bones that her disappearance has something to do with me. Still, I find myself growing angry; I  _know_  Millie, she's  _always_  enjoyed being the centre of attention and making a spectacle of herself, on her own terms – it was true when she was the King's mistress, and is true even now. I decide that she's toying with me – with  _everyone_  – on purpose, and I refuse to give in to it.

'She's  _teasing_  us,' I say, waving a hand. 'She's always enjoyed performing for a crowd.'

Cee glares at me, as if she hardly recognises me. '...What a  _monstrous_  thing to say!' she sobs. 'She could be hurt, or... or worse!'

Scratch rushes over and sits beside his daughter. He wraps an arm around her and comforts her, 'There, there, Cee – I'm sure nothing's happened to her, sweetheart!' he soothes. He sends me a warning look, 'Do  _try_  to be sensitive, Wally.'

I tut and shake my head. 'Of course,' I say. 'Do forgive me, Cee–'

Scratch looks at me, confused.

'Ah, Miss Campbell,' I quickly correct myself.  ' _Sorry_.'

I turn my back on them both as I reach into the pocket of my jacket and fish out a packet of cigarettes and matches. I shove one between my lips with shaking hands and roughly strike a match.

Scratch stops me. 'I'd rather you take it outside, Wally,' he says. He waves a hand at the threadbare tapestries hanging from the old walls. '...The tapestries, remember?'

I nod, then wave out the match and slip the unlit cigarette back into my pocket.

When Gio the footman suddenly enters, Scratch and Cee all but jump to their feet, expecting –  _hoping_  for – some news.

'Oh, Gio,' Scratch says. 'Any sign of her?'

Gio looks at Cee for a moment, then shakes his head. '...Non, signore.'

Scratch growls. 'Well this is ridiculous;  _someone_  must know where in blazes she is!' he shouts. He turns to Gio again, 'And they're searching for her in town?'

'Si, signore.'

Scratch rubs a hand across his jaw. '...You said you saw her at four?'

Gio nods. 'Si, signore,' he replies. 'I told you; she give me a letter to send.'

'What is this letter you keep mentioning –  _what_  letter?' Scratch stuttered impatiently. 'Do you still have it? Bring it to me.'

'Si, I have it,' Gio replies, reaching into his pocket. He brings out the letter and offers it up to Scratch. '...She say to send it tomorrow... for Signor Tripp.'

I roll my eyes. ' _Thripp_ ,' I correct before I realise that I never gave Millie a letter. '...Wait,  _what_  letter? I never gave her any letter to send!'

Scratch raises his eyebrows as he turns the envelope over in his hand, reading the address. 'Arthur Brack at Duckworth's Publishing on The Strand,' he reads before looking up and scoffing, 'Good God, Wally! I didn't know you were still in touch with Bracky! I've a stake in Duckworth's you know – it's been part of my portfolio for years; Bracky's even stayed here a few times.'

I glance nervously at the letter. 'I... But I never sent–'

'Then you don't mind, do you?' Scratch asks as he begins to lever his thumb under the envelope flap.

I swallow hard and glance at Cee as I hear the paper tear.

'Perhaps it'll help us get to the bottom of this mystery,' Scratch goes on as he teases the letter from the envelope and unfolds it.

The parlour falls silent as Scratch peers down his nose and begins to read the letter – first, with raised eyebrows and then with a slowly sinking scowl. By the time he reaches the end, he's practically scrunching the letter in his clenched fist.

'Call the police - the Carabinieri,' he grunts at Gio.

Cee looks alarmed. '...Papa, what is it – what does the letter say?'

Scratch glares at me for a moment before he strides across the parlour and slaps the letter against my chest –  _hard_. So hard that I stumble backwards.  '...You're finished,' he snarls.  'Caught and bowled.'

I take the letter before it slips and glance down at it. It's my book proposal; the outline of a scandal from start to finish and a twenty five year old secret.

I wrote it all, word for word. All except the footnote in elegant, swooping blue ink.

_OVER MY DEAD BODY – the late Lady Apsley._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of the finale, reader! (I'm not 100% happy with it, but then am I ever satisfied?) I'm working on a short story set in Victorian London for my next installment in the Daisies Series, so stayed tuned... ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if the formatting is weird (ugh, I just can't get my head around it). This one kind of ran away with me - it's a bit Lolita and a bit An Inspector Calls... and a little bit Downton Abbey - haha! It's definitely a two-parter - stay tuned! ;-)


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